


Something Stupid

by AnnaofAza



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: (between Eggsy and a mark), Angst, Class Issues, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Honeypots, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mission Fic, Smut, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-07 09:19:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7709524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So…have you ever opted out of honeypots?”</p><p>“Well,” Harry says slowly, “no.”</p><p>Eggsy pauses. “No?” he repeats. <i>Not even for me?</i> He wants to ask, but holds his tongue.</p><p>In which sleeping with Harry becomes a little more complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Paxdracona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paxdracona/gifts).



> To Paxdracona: I really, really hope you like this! All of your prompts sounded like so much fun; it was hard to choose which one to write! 
> 
> This fic shares the title of one of my favorite Frank Sinatra (plus Nancy Sinatra) songs of all time. I think my mom is sick of hearing it on repeat. Thanks to those who cheered me on as I wrote, paced, and edited!

Step one of Kingsman training: When faced with a confusing situation, look around, take notice, and try to first locate where you are. 

That part is easy: Harry's bed. 

Then it becomes complicated after that: Harry's bed, in Harry's house, at approximately one o'clock in the morning, with Harry breathing heavily beside him. Harry Hart. Back from the dead. His boss. His _king_. And now his—

Well, Eggsy's not sure what to think next, and he’s not sure that his mind can tear itself from the shuddering stutters of _oh my god oh my god did this happen?_   to really think. But as he lays on his back, doing his best to regulate his breathing, Eggsy’s mind flitters from fact to fact, grounding himself: the sweat trickling down his back and bollocks, the cramping soreness in his lower muscles, the quivering jelly that are his limbs, the rabbit-fast beat of his heart, the coolness of thousand-count cotton sheets against his heated flesh, the measured breaths of the person beside him...

Eggsy concentrates on his own breathing, trying to figure out what to say before this moment goes away. Part of him wants to stay in this bubble of laziness and contentment, but Eggsy knows from past experience that these don’t take very long to burst.

Before he can open his mouth, there’s a loud groan and soft shift of the mattress as Harry rolls over to lay flat on his back, chest dampened with perspiration and hair in loose, untamed curls. No glasses—after Harry had carefully placed them on the nightstand before they got knocked onto the carpet by an errant limb—and, like Eggsy, without a stitch of clothing. Eggsy, with a bit of smugness, notices the bright red marks lined up his neck.

“Well,” Harry manages to say, “that was—invigorating.” 

Managing a breathy laugh, Eggsy mutters, “Yeah.” Then, because he can't think of anything else, he repeats, “Yeah.” 

Harry’s knuckles trace up his arm, then trail down, repeating the motion in slow, soothing patterns. “That’s flattery for you,” Harry murmurs, as Eggsy tries to control his twitching lips, too exhausted to think about rolling over and giving him an unamused look. “Are you all right?”

 “Yeah,” Eggsy says, voice bleary. He holds onto the flashes of rushing up the porch, trying the key three times into the lock with twitching hands, bumping against the door frame in the haste to get to the bedroom, gripping Harry’s elbows and Harry letting himself be pulled into the room, stumbling over a pair of oxfords on the floor in the dark, kissing Harry as if his life depended on it. “Yeah.”

He falls asleep before he asks Harry if he can stay the night. 

* * *

The morning after is supposed to be the most awkward part of something like this, and when Eggsy wakes up alone, his worst feelings are briefly confirmed.

But there, on the pillow beside his face, is a folded note in Harry’s neat, looping handwriting: _Harold Andrew Hart requests your presence at the breakfast table. 10:30 AM, sharp. If you do not arrive at the prescribed time, you will be carried down in what you’re wearing at the moment._

Grinning, Eggsy rolls out of bed, pulls on his trousers and shirt from the floor, and heads down, trying to keep quiet on the wooden stairs. Already, he can smell what seems like a small restaurant’s worth of breakfast food.

“Good morning, Eggsy,” Harry says, looking up from the frying pan. He’s already dressed in dark slacks, a pin-striped apron, polished oxfords, and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, nearly the same ensemble as when Eggsy first sat down at this very table and was coaxed into an etiquette lesson. “Sit down, please, it’s almost ready."

“This is _way_ too much,” Eggsy says, gaping at the arrangement in front of him. There’s dark toast, crispy bacon, browned sausage, savory beans, skillet potatoes, fried tomatoes and mushrooms, black pudding, and even a pot of piping hot tea. The table’s set like Harry’s expecting the queen, complete with that funny silver bird centerpiece.

“We both need our energy.” Harry deftly lifts the fried eggs with a spatula and drops one apiece on two plates, then hands one to Eggsy. “Help yourself.”

Eggsy does, scooping up each of everything with abandon, trying not to pay attention to the now-awkward atmosphere of the dining room. Harry’s not meeting his eyes or saying anything else, bending slightly downwards to pick up a piece of toast on Eggsy’s left side. Hesitantly, Eggsy finally sits down, and picking up a forkful of eggs, chews slowly. Golden, fluffy, and with steam rising a little from the top—perfect, of course.  

“Good?” Harry asks, after a careful peck on his cheek. 

Eggsy wonders if it's about the eggs or about the situation at large. "Good," he agrees, because both are. 

Harry smiles at him, and sits down to eat. 

* * *

“Right on time,” Merlin greets when they walk into the dining room. “Galahad, it appears you’re perhaps a good influence on our Arthur.”

Eggsy can’t help but inwardly preen, shooting Harry a covert glance while Merlin turns his attention to his tablet.

“Glasses, gentlemen,” Merlin says, and Eggsy obediently slips his on, noticing with a smile that Harry already had his perched on his nose. “Galahad, Arthur, you have a new mission involving a certain Mr. Michael Morgan.” On the screen above the fireplace, Morgan appears, brown hair swept in an easy wave, looking at someone—perhaps whoever is taking the picture—and frowning pensively. From the shoulders down, he looks like he’s wearing a navy blue suit—Eggsy’s not sure if it’s bespoke or not—and gold cufflinks with something shiny glittering in the middle.

“I think I recognize that bloke,” Eggsy says.

“That’s because _that bloke_ is part of the London Assembly,” Merlin replies dryly, and Eggsy tries not to squirm at the man’s pointed stare. “He’s also a very, very corrupt man.”

“Aren’t they all?” Harry asks, and Eggsy fights to hide a smirk.

Merlin ignores him. “He is taking bribes from military contracting companies that have their own mercenaries. They give him funds, and he supplies them with contracts all over the world. These contractors stole a lot of money that was sent to Iraq from the US to help with reconstruction, and rumor has it that Morgan has it stowed away—and that he himself likes to…fan the flames of various skirmishes himself.

“He hosts parties at his mansion—mostly to rub elbows with other politicians, try to court various customers, and show off his wealth. Your mission is to infiltrate the party and find the evidence needed to take him out: a flash drive, a safe full of cash, you name it. Take lots of pictures.” Merlin looks at them. “It’s a likelihood that Eggsy, disguised as a politician’s son, can either distract him with chatter or be able to sneak off to search the mansion.”

Eggsy nods. He knows this alias, constructed to be similar to Charlie, hungry to get a step up the ladder and do whatever it takes to stay there. The painstakingly-crafted record of someone who exists only in computers and on paper can hold up to a background check, even though it was created only five months ago. That’s the magic of Merlin—not that he’d ever mention the _m_ -word to the man who routinely refuses to tell Eggsy his real name.

Merlin hands them folders, and Eggsy flips his open to skim his alias’s file, crammed with cases and finance records and private mentorship programs, then glances at the floor plan of the mansion. “But it is also likely that he’ll try to rub elbows with Henry Devere,” the handler continues, “an affluent businessman, wealthier following V-Day, due to inheriting a great deal of relatives’ money and property and rumored to have connections to the House of Lords.”

Harry frowns. “Devere's not dead, then?”

“Traces of Valentine’s suspicions on you were erased quite thoroughly,” Merlin replies. “And it’s one of your strongest and oldest aliases; we shouldn’t waste it.” He then looks at them both each in turn, and there’s something in his gaze that makes Eggsy wonder if Merlin has sensed what’s changed with him and Harry. “You must get to know the target biblically, if necessary. Do you accept this mission?”

“Yes,” Harry immediately agrees.

Eggsy looks at Harry, briefly surprised. Even though they haven’t talked about whatever this… _thing_ between them was yet, Eggsy thought Harry would put up more of a fight, a token protest, or at least, a raised eyebrow to silently ask, _should we? Is this all right?_

Even though Merlin’s assigned this mission specifically for him, Eggsy knows he can refuse. He himself had turned down exactly two. One had been because the man in the question resembled Dean too much for his liking, and the other had looked too much like Harry, too soon after the few months after the man’s supposed "death."

But if Harry doesn’t mind…

“Eggsy?” Merlin now asks.

“Yes,” he says so quickly that both men look momentarily startled. “Yes,” Eggsy repeats, before any of them can ask questions, “I accept.”

* * *

What follows is a whirlwind of evenings out—operas, museums, musicals, dinner theatre, five star restaurants—and all Eggsy can do is hang on for the ride. His mum keeps eyeing his wardrobe of dinner jackets and silk ties every time he leaves or sneaks in late, his phone buzzing throughout the day, the marks on his neck that Eggsy keeps patting powder over or hiding underneath his collar. He feels like when he was sixteen and cutting class with his mates to see a movie, thrilled and giddy with the combination of the anticipation of getting caught and confidence of so-far successful evasion making him feel what can only be called  _wicked_.

And when they come back to Harry’s house—there’s no way Eggsy can sneak Harry into his flat without an interrogation session from his mum—the evening continues long into the wee hours.

Harry likes to slide his hands up Eggsy’s hips, possessive and certain, then reach up to undo the buttons of his shirt. He likes to mouth greedily over every inch of exposed skin, hands always moving as if indecisive about where to touch. He likes to give little orders between kisses, like _stay put, yes, like that_ and _help me undo this button, good, good_ and _open your eyes for me._

It’s passionate, hungry, fervent—the sort of thing described in well-thumbed romance novels or shows on the telly that come with a _viewer discretion is advised_ warning before the credits roll. Every touch, whether by lips or hands is thumbing the spark wheel and flicking the ignition button on a lighter. It’s trying, increasingly, to stifle moans and gasps before giving up the effort all together. It’s responding as if it was another challenge, like grappling on a mat, not allowing your partner to get the best of you, fighting with filthy words and breath-stealing kisses instead of fists and kicks.

But that’s not all.

It’s also Harry holding his face in his hands, calling him _dear_ and _darling,_ pressing kisses into his skin with each endearment, stroking back hair with gentle hands, wordlessly asking, _is that all right?_ It’s looking into Harry’s eyes and wanting to avert the gaze of open adoration, confirming that yes, yes, he’s here. It’s laying on the bed afterwards, feeling a soft, damp flannel run across sore limbs and warm flesh and knowing there’s breakfast in the morning.

Of course, after all of this, they go to work and compare notes on their mission—Harry’s excited to actually be in the field, instead of pouring over papers and watching the action alongside Merlin—and sneak in touches underneath the table, each one a promise of what will happen during another free evening together.

"How long have you had Devere?" Eggsy asks one afternoon in Harry’s office, lightly tapping his hand on Harry’s knee. While his own false identity of what Eggsy calls  _arse-kissing prat_ isn't his first, it still has that untouched-but-not-quite feel to it, like the first few days of driving a brand-new car. 

"When I was about...hm, twenty-six," Harry replies, looking at pictures of Morgan's mansion and comparing them to the blueprints in front of him. "As Merlin mentioned, it is my most reliable. He has many connections, a lot of money to donate to causes, and is wealthy enough to get away with being a recluse. No close friends, family, or partners." 

Eggsy looks up from a photograph of Morgan and a younger man shaking hands. "Partners?" 

"Henry Devere is a lone wolf," Harry replies. "Occasionally, he has dalliances, but it is not in his nature to remain attached for very long." 

He wonders how similar Harry and Henry are, unlike Eggsy and his own alias for this mission. The word  _dalliances_ with its implications makes him squirm with visions of Bond girls with tousled hair and risque ballgowns and Bond-like gentlemen with tuxes and wiggling eyebrows. 

"Your alias, if I recall, is unattached," Harry continues, writing down something on a stray piece of paper, "which you are allowed to change for a mission, but in this case, obviously, you are a free man, as it were." 

"Can't I shack up with a Henry Devere after?" Eggsy asks, half-teasingly.  

Harry gives him one of those looks of mixed amusement and consternation _._ "No, Eggsy." He then glances at his laptop. "Ah, look at that. Half past one. We've been here for a while, haven't we?" 

“I can bring us a late lunch,” Eggsy suggests, stretching his hands above his head. “How about Nandos?”

Harry laughs. “I can make you chicken ten times as good from there.”

“Oi, it's not that bad,” Eggsy protests, giving him a reproachful look. “You ate McDonalds with Valentine, remember?”

“If I recall, that wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience.” Harry gives him a quick rub on the knee. “Besides, I believe we have enough time to pop in at this lovely restaurant down the corner—”

There’s a knock on the door, and Harry takes his hand off Eggsy’s knee and calls, “Come in!”

“Arthur,” Kay greets, then his eyes flicker towards Eggsy, who’s now aware of how his jacket’s carelessly strewn over the back of his chair, how his glasses are pushed from his nose to rest on top of his head, how close his foot is to Harry’s underneath the desk. “Galahad.”

Harry’s expression is perfectly impassive. “Kay. Good afternoon.”

The other agent nods, gaze flickering between him and Harry. “I didn’t know you kept open office hours, Arthur, but if I may have a moment? For our scheduled debriefing?”

“Uh, yes,” Eggsy says, in his posh accent. “Don’t let me disturb you.” He stands up reluctantly and begins stacking his things on top of his laptop, feeling Kay’s eyes on his back the entire time. He wants to ask about lunch, if he should bring something over, but the words stick in his throat like dry bread. They still haven’t talked about this—this crooked thing between them—and Eggsy can’t help but feel shaky over bringing it up, hoping that, eventually, Harry would.

All business, Harry looks at him as Kay seats himself in Eggsy’s place. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Galahad; I’m sorry.”

Tomorrow? But Eggsy simply nods. “All right. See you…Arthur.”

* * *

He catches Jamal and Ryan for drinks at the Black Prince that evening. Both bemoan Eggsy's tardiness and frequent absences, but are happy to let Eggsy pay for the first round. Dean and his goons no longer show their faces around here, ever since whispers of Eggsy’s effortless beat-down of the five, so the pub is considerably calmer.

Eggsy’s content to lean back and listen to what his mates have been up to, from Ryan’s latest date to Jamal’s little brother’s birthday, interjecting occasionally with jokes and congratulations, especially when Ryan shyly admits his new position as a firefighter, and Jamal brags about his promotion to assistant manager at Tesco’s. Eggsy tries to talk as little about himself as possible, instead volunteering information about his mum and sister rather than his “tailoring job.” He’s sure that Jamal and Ryan have some suspicions about it—“you can mend trousers, yeah, but make a fucking a suit?”—but not enough that he actually has to have a chat with Merlin about amnesia darts.

When Eggsy casually asks if they're going to be having any fun between their jobs, Jamal grins, leaning forward in his seat. "Ryan's got tickets to Plan B!"

Ryan nods eagerly. "Got them yesterday. Are you free Saturday, 'bout two months from now? Around seven?”

Eggsy hesitates. The thing about being a Kingsman is living life on call, twenty-four-seven. Although Merlin or Harry hadn’t scheduled any mission for Eggsy this week, some madman could threaten to blow up the London Eye in the next twenty-four hours, and Eggsy would have to drop everything and get to the scene.

“I think,” he ends up saying, not quite a commitment, and his mates are well aware of it.

“Well, you better be. Unless…” Jamal pauses, winking. “You got a hot date with Haz?”

“No,” Eggsy says, having given up on getting his mates to call Harry by his actual name ever since Ryan and Jamal, in the interest of scoping out _the bloke you keep talking about,_ popped by the tailor shop to “say hello to Eggsy.” Jamal had winked so many times in Eggsy’s direction that Harry politely asked if there was something wrong with his eye, and Ryan kept gaping at the animal heads on the wall and bolts of fabric that could pay for several months’ rent. “We don’t have any plans.”

“Oh, there’s a _we_ now?” Jamal smirks. “What happened? Did you finally shag him?”

“Jamal!” Eggsy hisses, quickly whipping his head from side to side to see if anyone overheard.

Jamal points his finger at him. “So, you did!” he crows.  

Affecting his poshest accent, Eggsy demurs, “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“You ain’t no gentleman, mate! Come on...” Ryan lowers his voice. “Just say yes or no.”

Eggsy takes another sip of beer to calm his nerves. “Yes, all right, we did,” he admits, feeling like a bird at a sleepover. “Few days ago.”

His mates hoot, raising their mugs to toast him, and Eggsy tries not to flush underneath their knowing stares.

Ryan hums before setting his mug down. "I got four tickets, Eggsy. Why don't you bring ‘im?"

“Oh, I don’t know…” Eggsy tries to picture Harry listening to energetic, pulse-beating rap in his suit. Hell, he couldn’t even imagine Harry in anything more casual than a button-down shirt and slacks, let alone standing shoulder-to-shoulder in a mosh pit with a bunch of people jumping up and down in the front and shouting along with the band members onstage. The Harry he knows prefers afternoons at the Met, curling up on the couch with a book, or taking a day trip that involves museums or walks through botanical gardens.   

Jamal snorts. “What, your bespoke bloke can’t listen to anything but classical music?” He smirks and affects a posh accent: “No, sir, good day! Mine ears cannot listen to such racket and drivel! They are only suited for listening to _proper_ music!”

Eggsy blinks. “No, he—he’s willing to try new things,” he protests, even though he knows for a fact Harry hasn’t changed a single thing in his house—besides Mr. Pickle over the loo—ever since it was passed onto him in the nineties.

“Lay off of him, bruv,” Ryan says, lightly hitting Jamal’s arm with a fist. “Eggsy’s dating with the upper-crust now. It’s typical of them rich old blokes—they want to take you on a journey, introduce you to their world, you know?”

 _Their world_ nags in Eggsy’s head when he hails a cab late that evening and rides it to the flat he shares with his mum and Daisy. He's been holding it in for quite some time that he's a little tired of wearing suits and having to speak in a posh accent to be respected. And as much as he enjoys Harry wining and dining him at some posh five-star restaurant or famous opera house, Eggsy wonders why he hasn't once thought about taking Harry pakouring or to a club. 

Eggsy startles at the thought of _dating_ Harry: the new atmosphere to their outings, whether or not they’ll have public displays of affection, if Eggsy will move in—no, it’s all too new to think about this. They just became a couple.

Are they, though? Eggsy tries to crush those thoughts, but they begin to trickle out through the cracks. Just because they had sex didn’t mean it _meant_ something—growing up in the estates and with Dean stamped out any fairy tale notions—but it meant something to _him_ , and Eggsy hoped that it meant the same to Harry.

When Eggsy gets home, sneaking upstairs so he won’t wake his mum or sister, he texts Harry with a simple _hey._

 _How was your night out?_ Harry responds.

 _Fun,_ Eggsy writes, sitting on the bed. _So, I was wondering…if you’re not busy a month from now…_ He pauses, nearly closing his eyes when he types the rest out: _do you want to go out? Something bigger than usual?_

Eggsy's counting the seconds he has until his heart beats its way out his chest, forcing himself to untie his shoes and shuck off his jacket, when his phone buzzes.

_That sounds lovely. I believe I can push debriefs to the afternoon instead, and everything’s been quiet lately that I don’t believe there’s going to be an emergency mission. We could go to a museum?_

_Or better yet,_ Eggsy retorts, _a concert._

There’s a definite prolonged pause before Harry sends him another message. _Do you have a specific one in mind?_

 _Yeah, Plan B._ Then, after seeing a good two minutes of tiny dots looping over and over, Eggsy adds, _Do you…know what that is?_

Harry’s response seems hesitant. _A band, I assume?_

 _One of their albums, Ill Manors, is about growing up in the council estates. Jamal got me into them, and I’ve been listening to them since secondary, even bought them legally and everything._ Eggsy can’t stop typing, trying not to put too much eagerness in his text. _Jamal and Ryan scored some tickets, and I thought if you’re not busy, you can come._

_No, thank you._

Hurt drops into his chest and twists at the immediate rejection. _No?_

 _Forgive me, Eggsy, but I don’t think I’d be appropriate company. But you should go, if you like._ Harry replies gently. _Don’t let me stop you._

 _No, that’s not what I—never mind_. Eggsy already gives up halfway through his protests, wanting to just chuck his phone on the nightstand and pull the covers over his head. He feels foolish, wearing a polo and trousers and sitting on a bed that isn’t Harry’s, so different from last night.

 _I’ll ask Roxy, then_ , he finally texts, trying not to sigh out loud. _Night, Harry._

* * *

 “I’ve heard of them,” Roxy says, accepting the Pret takeout bag and unwrapping her sandwich, brie and apple and ham, no mustard, toasted bread. “I have to double-check to see if my mission is that day, but that sounds fun.”

“You got that one for Kenya?” Eggsy takes a big bite of his chocolate chunk cookie, ignoring Roxy’s pointed look at his own uneaten ham and egg sandwich. “The old break-in-and-steal?”

“Yes, Merlin’s eager for me to try out the new tech from Germany.” Roxy takes a bite, chewing carefully before speaking again: “Basically, it’s just like our glasses, except for an added feature: lasers.”

Eggsy’s jaw drops. “That is sick! Sounds cooler than my mission, definitely: reconnaissance for some egotistic arsehole.”

“Ah, yes, Arthur’s doing that one, too, I heard,” Roxy comments, and Eggsy tries not to wince.

He doesn’t seem to succeed in maintaining a complete poker face, as Roxy puts down her lunch, simply looking at him with a concerned expression.

“Did it affect their relationship?” Eggsy blurts out.

Roxy frowns, obviously confused. “What?”

“Honeypots. You know, with Percival and James.”

“You have to realize that I knew nothing about what my uncle or his boyfriend was doing until James died. I thought Uncle Alastair and James were just tailors. But as far as I knew, they were always disgustingly in love.” She rolls her eyes. “One time, when they first started dating, James sent Uncle Alastair flowers and a text, and it said, _Do you like me? Yes or no?_ And once my uncle replied, _yes,_ James knocked on our door with chocolates and an invitation to a fancy dinner and went, _Good, it would have been embarrassing if you said no.”_

Eggsy snickers, but secretly, he thinks it sounds sort of sweet. “So, they were fine.”

“Oh, not _all_ the time, mind you. James liked a bit of drama, and my uncle’s bloody stubborn, so they could argue for days. It always blew over, though.” Roxy sips at her lemonade. “You’re worried that honeypots are going to affect your relationship with Harry?” The word _relationship_ sounds so easy, coming from Roxy’s lips.

He doesn’t waste time on the _how do you know?_ questions. Privately, Eggsy likes that it’s become obvious around Kingsman—at least to Roxy. “I’ve never thought I’d be a cheater, that’s all.” Ever since he’d caught Dean mucking about with a bird who he occasionally sold weed to, Eggsy had developed a special loathing for cheaters. “It’s dumb romantic shit, yeah? In the grand scheme of saving the world, what’s a few snogging sessions?” He's slept with birds. And blokes. And people who don't identify as a bird or a bloke. Harry probably had, too.

Scratch that, he already _has_.

“He's probably had loads of sex,” Eggsy blurts out mournfully. Roxy nearly chokes, but Eggsy keeps going: “He's fifty-two and fit as fuck.”

“Eggsy, I don't want to think about our boss having sex!” Roxy pleads, holding up her hands. “And if it bothers you, let me impart some wisdom, often repeated by me during secondary.” She leans forward. _“Go talk to him.”_

* * *

“These?” Eggsy asks, tracing the long, diagonal lines over Harry’s spine. The covers tangled around his ankles are slowly sliding off onto the floor, but neither of them is moving to pull them back up, too exhausted from what began with Harry kissing chocolate from the corner of Eggsy’s mouth. “What are they from?”

“A present from a certain Lady Katherine Cook,” Harry replies, eyes closed as Eggsy mouths at one of the knobs of his spine. “She had coated her nails with a deadly poison.”

Eggsy pauses, withdrawing to look Harry in the eye. “You’re having me on.”

“No, it was one of the more agonizing experiences of my career,” Harry replies, almost flippantly. “Beginning to seize, trying to stab her with a tie pin, having my arm broken in two different places...it was not one of my better honeypots.”

Oh. Eggsy sits up. “So, I was talking to Roxy earlier, and she mentioned…” He hesitates, before going on: “she mentioned Percival and James opted out. When they, uh, were together. So…have you ever opted out?”

“Well,” Harry says slowly, “no.”

Eggsy pauses. “No?” he repeats. _Not even for me?_   He wants to ask, but holds his tongue.

“It’s not a straight yes or no opt-out.” Harry says. “James and Percival both agreed that they’d accept honeypots, but only if there was no other option except them. But neither of them wanted intercourse. Just verbal wooing, a little kissing, and groping. No sex.”

“Oh.” Eggsy pauses. “And you’ve never—you’ve always just…” He makes a crude gesture with his right hand.

Harry sits up. “If you’re not comfortable—” he begins.

“No, no, _I’m_ fine,” Eggsy says, as quickly as a reflex. As soon as they leave his mouth, he wishes he can take them back, but doesn’t want to look like some coward—someone who backs out too easily, and he’s never been that. How many years had gone by that his hand reached for a phone, the unsaid _oxfords, not brogues_ on his tongue, before retreating?

“I just was wondering,” he adds, mentally wincing at the pathetic excuse. “I mean, I thought honeypots were just a Bond thing, and they’re not—and well, I just was curious.” Then, “Wait, does Merlin…record them?”

“The glasses are usually left on, in case of an unprecedented emergency,” Harry says, tone as calm as if they were discussing the weather. “But don’t worry, Merlin doesn’t care to mention it unless the night ended in a clusterfuck. Just take five years ago, when Bors discovered his mark loved the fine art of auto-erotic asphyxiation—”

* * *

Even though his mum—who discovered the racy text messages when she grabbed his mobile by mistake—has her reservations, Eggsy doesn’t mind dating an older man. To his mum, Harry being older than herself translates to visions of creaking joints, Alzheimer’s, or using Eggsy as some pretty young thing to make him feel younger himself.

But Harry being older, in reality, is not an obstacle. His reflexes are lightning-fast, his mind is sharper than a well-honed knife, and his manners are impeccable, never making Eggsy feel inferior due to their age difference. Occasionally, Harry would mention some old television show or watching the Berlin Wall fall, and Eggsy would give a little start. Hearing Harry talk about his missions makes Eggsy wonder if he missed a calling as a teacher—or a professor; Harry’s certainly bright enough.

Harry never talks about himself, and even though Eggsy’s pressed him for details—tiny ones, like where he went to school and if he liked a certain band and if he got into trouble a lot as a kid—Harry's reluctant to tell, and Eggsy thinks that it's because he doesn't want evidence out there confirming the age difference between them. Once Harry's young, the mask will fall off, and their relationship will unfurl.

So that's why he's here, headphones plugged into the computer in front of him and fingers eagerly typing at the keyboard. Harry knows so much about him, but Eggsy can’t say the same. He wants to see Harry, young and hopefully not as composed—and hopefully, maybe something that Eggsy can tease him a little about during their dinner tonight.

He watches a few missions that show off Harry’s agility and uncanny aim at moving targets, an incident involving having to sing karaoke at a wedding, and a few ones where Harry has likely forgotten that he still had his glasses on. The funniest so far has to be of Harry, obviously sloshed, arguing with Mr. Pickle about the ethics of human cloning and cursing about his favorite football team losing in the semi-finals.

Somehow, he stumbles on a folder labelled _Recruitment_ , and immediately clicks it, then a random video, eager to see what Harry was like years ago.

The first thing he notices is that Harry has a ridiculous amount of fluff masquerading as hair and cheeks as smooth as a baby’s bottom. He somehow manages to wear the baggy suit well—totally unfair—and seems to have Mr. Pickle—a bit bigger than a rat—under control with a loosely-held leash, though by the terrier’s slow chewing on the leash, not as well as Harry thinks.

 The second is that Harry’s standing—without a scowl—next to Chester King, who looks disturbingly almost handsome and has on an ordinary Kingsman suit, not the familiar one Eggsy’s used to seeing on Harry, pink tie and all.

“…And all the other candidates are idiots,” Harry’s complaining, boredom radiating off him like a cat. He crosses his arms, somewhat dramatically. “You’re telling me they’re meant to be Galahad?”

“Certainly not,” Chester says, with a wave of his hand. “You’re by far the most qualified candidate, young as you are.” He almost sounds kind, before ruining it by adding, “Don’t let that skinny one from Aberdeen beat you, though. I don’t know _what_ Lancelot was thinking.”

Harry rolls his eyes. "Nothing but a schemie, that one is," he says to Chester, derisive and careless. 

Eggsy flinches. 

Harry continues, stretching his vowels in a parody of a Scottish accent: “ey’d rather gie a schemie a job based on charity, yeah?”

Chester’s expression doesn’t change much, except for the tiniest smirk on a corner of his mouth. “Precisely.”

Eggsy signs out of the network, chest hurting. Schemie—like chav—like how—

“That’s why they get housing by sitting on their arses,” Charlie had said, voice carrying purposely across the room while his mates snickered like hyenas. He favored Eggsy with a sneer, knowing full well if Eggsy did anything more than shout at him—like a ruffled dog—he could kiss Kingsman good-bye. “Spend all their money the government hands out to them on drugs and alcohol and… _clothes_ ,” he’d sneered, clearly referencing the sad lack of luggage Eggsy had on him when he arrived at the estate.  

Eggsy had forced himself to walk away, hearing more taunts thrown at his back, but comforted himself in the knowledge that Harry had recruited _him,_ after his father. He hadn’t gone to a fancy school or spoke in perfectly enunciated Queen’s English, but it didn’t matter. He’d basked in Harry’s attention after he’d woken up from the coma, taking note how Harry threw in tips about etiquette between ways to disarm an opponent, treating him as a future gentleman spy and not as some polished trophy he could show off to the other agents as Henry Higgins did. (He _did_ remember the musical, thank you very much.)

 _I thought you were better than that,_ Eggsy thinks, before signing out for the day.

* * *

That night, Harry sluices warm water over Eggsy's head and massages his ridiculously-expensive shampoo into his hair. Normally, Eggsy would be loving the attention, the attentiveness, but all he can think of is Harry’s voice, warped and sneering, _Nothing but a schemie._

When Harry pushes a tender hand through Eggsy's locks, humming a little under his breath, Eggsy can't help but wonder when he'd turned around, when he stopped thinking of people like Eggsy like dirt at the bottom of someone's shoes. Or worse, if Harry hadn't changed at all, that he was simply paying a debt and fucking some rough, exotic chav.

Eggsy dismisses that notion. He might not know who Harry was then, but he knows Harry now. He knows Harry's warm smiles and glances and the way he looks at Eggsy. He knows Harry cares for him—not in a secondhand way, not like Harry’s cold _Can’t you see everything I’ve done has been about trying to repay him?_ on that horrible day.  

 _But he didn’t want to go to that concert with you,_ a voice in his head persists. _Or give up honeypots for you. Why doesn’t he ask you to move in with him or acknowledge you officially?_

“Eggsy?” Harry says, and dimly, Eggsy realizes Harry’s been calling his name for a good while. “Eggsy, have you fallen asleep on me?”

Eggsy, shampoo in his hair and all, turns around and kisses Harry, so fierce and longing that he's afraid Harry will comment on it, but the other man returns it with equal fervor. They're tired—but not that tired—and they kiss and kiss, Eggsy's hands on the thin fabric of Harry's undershirt and Harry's fingers lingering on Eggsy's damp skin. It's slow and languid and sweet, the perfect kind to be shared in this room with soporific heat.

“Shall we move this to the bedroom?” Harry asks, pulling away, then affectionately ruffles his still-soapy hair. “After I rinse this, of course.”

Normally, Eggsy wouldn’t hesitate, but this time, he shakes his head. “Not up it tonight.”

Water pours over his head, and Eggsy closes his eyes when Harry’s fingers comb through his hair, working out the suds. “Are you nervous about your mission tomorrow?”

“Yeah, about that,” Eggsy says, faux nonchalance in his voice. “You’re honestly okay with it? That you or me might have to shag someone to get the information?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Harry stiffly replies. “I’ve done missions like this for years. Which,” he adds, voice seeming lighter, a coaxing _let’s move past this,_ “I don’t care for especially, but it doesn’t count for me if it’s with a woman.”

 _Of all the_... “For fuck’s sake, Harry, that’s not how it works! Just because it’s some _bird_ doesn’t mean it ain’t cheatin’, and guess what, I’m going to be shaggin’ a _bloke,_ so where’s your logic, Mister H—”

“Who said anything about _cheating?_ You told Merlin that you were fine—”

“Well, maybe I’m not!” Eggsy explodes, feeling foolish with raisin-like fingers in tepid bathwater and sitting naked in a bathtub that could fit four people, starting a row in a loo  _again_. “ _Damn_ it, Harry.”

Harry’s arms are folded across his chest. “You should have told me. You can _tell_ me that you’re uncomfortable, which things I shouldn’t do, and we can talk it out—”

The words come out before Eggsy can take them back: "So, you don't think I'm a chav? A schemie?" 

Harry flinches, and Eggsy knows he's recalling those words, the horrible ones he's said years and years ago. “Eggsy, I—“

“Someone who’s skating by on pity scholarships and government benefits?” Eggsy’s voice is louder, almost too loud. He wonders if the neighbors will hear, but doesn't give a shit about it right now. “Someone who just wastes their lives in council estates? Someone who isn’t smart enough to vote in political elections, let alone be in Kingsman? I’ve heard it all—and how the fuck could you say those things?”

“Eggsy,” Harry tries, “let me—“

“How about that you won’t take my food or concert tickets or—or—” The rest that he wants to say sounds whiny, childish: _pay attention to me, acknowledge me, tell me that I can stay._

So instead, Eggsy hauls himself out of the tub, not looking at him. “Just forget it, okay? I’m going home.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Gentlemen, are you in position?”

Eggsy nods, bowtie at his throat and a flute of champagne clutched between his fingers. Letting his gaze drift towards his mark, Eggsy pointedly ignores Harry on the other side of the room, chatting with a bird with blonde hair and pearls coiled around her neck. Harry’s already taken a few turns on the dance floor and chatting with a powerful person or two, while Eggsy’s flittered around the room, talking in his posh voice and pretending he’s hanging onto every word. With his own mental notes and Merlin’s coaching, Eggsy navigates through politics, economics, and vacation options in various island countries, seemingly unaware that Morgan keeps glancing at the young, talkative stranger.

“All right,” Merlin muses. “Galahad, it looks like Morgan is glancing your way. Feel like saying hello?”

 _Ah, so he chose me._ Eggsy lifts his glass so it covers his lips. “Looks like he’s going to be the one to say hello first.” Beginning to stroll over to one of the long tables, as if interested in refilling his glass, Eggsy discreetly positions himself away from the small gatherings of blokes in tuxedos like his and birds with elegant gowns that brush the floor.

Morgan smiles when he just so happens to spot him, holding out his hand. “I’m afraid I haven’t introduced myself. Michael Morgan. Yourself?”

 _Right to the point._ “I’m David Carter," Eggsy says, in his best posh accent, giving the offered hand a shake, then pauses. "You’re—you’re one of those government men, aren’t you? London Assembly?”

Morgan ducks his head, a show of modesty, but Eggsy can see a flash of smugness at being recognized. “Indeed. And you—I’m afraid I’ve haven’t heard much about you.”

Eggsy visibly squirms, as if embarrassed. “I…I’m just a son of uh, some minor official. New money,” he adds, with a touch of fluster and ruffled feathers. “I’m just here to…network, so to speak.”

“Ah, new money,” Morgan says, nodding understandably. “You’ll get used to it in time. Tell me, David, what do you hope to be in the future?”

 _What, indeed_. “I want to be many things, sir, but primarily, someone who can make a difference. I want to leave my mark on this world.” Eggsy takes a sip of his drink, hearing Merlin’s muttered _All right, Arthur, start upstairs_ in his ear. He takes a deep breath, knowing he’s going to start an actual conversation in order for this to work. “What about you? Have you gotten everything you wished?”

Morgan laughs. “Not _everything_ , but so far, so good.” He steps forward, far away enough for propriety but close enough for something a little more suggestive. “David, what’s more valuable, more powerful, do you think? Money or secrets?”

“Secrets,” Eggsy says, though  _money_ could be argued—but he has a feeling where Morgan is going.

“Exactly. It’s like that riddle—what’s the most dangerous: the dagger brandished by the enemy, or the hidden one pressed to your back by someone you never see?”

Eggsy resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Isn’t that from _Game of Thrones_?”

Morgan smiles. “It is. And I’m guessing you know the answer?”

“The hidden dagger,” Eggsy replies. _Obviously._

“And that’s what politics is, my dear,” Morgan says cheerfully, and Eggsy fights the urge to tense at the nickname. “The game is to know nearly everything, but again,” he leans so his lips are close to Eggsy’s ear, “I don’t know you as well as I like.”

“I told you who I am.” Eggsy knows he’s supposed to relax, supposed to go along with this powerful politician putting the moves on him, hoping for favor, anything to get a leg up, but can’t help the latent urge to shove him away.

 _Galahad, you’re getting stiff,_ a message warns, scrolling across Eggsy’s lenses. Merlin doesn’t dare speak, not when Morgan’s close enough to hear a voice coming through Eggsy’s glasses.

“Perhaps we can continue this conversation and take a turn around the gallery?” Morgan asks, taking Eggsy’s tense spine as nervousness and smiling to reassure him. Eggsy remembers from the file that the gallery—only posh folks could have a gallery, for fuck's sake—was located on the first floor, so Harry's safe from interruptions.

“Won't your guests miss you?” Eggsy asks.

“Not when I start bringing out the desserts.” Morgan then beckons a waiter over, whispers in his ear, and sends him off. “Shall we?”

Eggsy has no choice but to follow, _ooh_ ing and _ahh_ ing at the right times and basically acting like the starry-eyed young interns he's seen in the press and photos he's observed. He knows men like Morgan, men who want fantasies, men who want them obedient enough to know when to slink off but fiery enough to keep their interest.

So Eggsy prattles on when he has a chance, talking about his fake years at Oxford and various internships and occasional vacations. _Notice me,_ he's subconsciously saying, _notice me._

Morgan tells stories of his own, preening under the attention Eggsy's giving him and subtly testing the waters with quick smiles and teasing touches to Eggsy's shoulders and arms. Every one of them makes Eggsy want to shove, to flinch, or to throw the contents of the half-full glass in his face, but instead, he forces himself to allow only a hint of hesitation, enough to make the farce convincing. The rest of him—the rest of David Carter—either doesn’t care enough to let this opportunity to talk to a powerful man pass him by or cares just a little, enough to lean curiously into this onslaught of approval and interest.

If he squints a little and applies enough imagination, Morgan resembles the agent he met over a year ago, radiating power but acceptance towards a young man who’s in need of an opportunity.

But Harry never touched him like this, never expected Eggsy to give more than his promise to do well, and Michael Morgan clearly expects _something_ if he’s going to pull a few strings to get someone like Eggsy—David, really—up the ladder.

“Tell me,” Morgan says, once he’s finished an anecdote about one of his cases, “how would you like to work under me?”

“You haven't even seen my resume,” Eggsy protests, appropriately astonished. 

“Send it to me first chance you get,” Morgan replies, waving his hand. “You seem like an enterprising, promising, young man from the right sort of family. And if you are exaggerating, let's say that you have me fooled. That charisma, yes, can be used.”

“But—”

“Hush.” Morgan touches his shoulder. “I want to give you this opportunity. All you have to do is accept it.”

“I—all right,” Eggsy agrees, with the right amount of hesitance and overtaking eagerness. “I just...I...thank you.”

“Excellent!” The man seems genuinely pleased. “Good. Good.” Then, “Who made your suit?”

“Why?”

Morgan steps closer. “Because I'd like to look as handsome as you do tonight.”

 _Smooth_. “I...it was a gift, sir.”

“No _sir_ s. Call me Michael.” Eggsy watches as Morgan rubs his arm, praying Harry’s at least reached the room with the evidence. “Quality material, but it's the man who makes the suit. Am I right?”

“Yes.” He knows what’s coming next. Morgan’s hand has not stopped its slow circles.

_Arthur has found the evidence. A few minutes, Galahad._

“And I do mean it, David,” Morgan continues, heedless to Eggsy’s thoughts of relief. “You do look handsome.”

“Thank you,” Eggsy says, but he can’t leave, not when Harry’s not done yet. He takes a step backward, though. “Um…”

 _‘So do you,’_   Merlin suggests.

It takes nearly every ounce of willpower to repeat those lines, summoning the right combination of coyness and anxiousness.

A hint of a leer is in the crook of Morgan’s mouth. “Thank you, David.”

He leans forward.

The kiss can almost be called gentle, something short and chaste. No teeth, no tongue. Morgan’s lips are soft, his hand still on Eggsy’s arm pressing into the fabric of the suit, his neck smelling of thousand-dollar cologne.

Eggsy’s aware of his own fingers still wrapped around the stem of his champagne glass. There are no alarm bells, no flashing red lights, no fierce yells in his head. He simply feels nothing. He’s floating on the edge of this room, only feeling the bare minimum of what’s happening to him. He doesn’t hear the quiet smacking of lips or Morgan’s low moan, only the breath that’s waiting to be let out once Morgan releases him.

But when Morgan begins to coax his lips into opening, his hand sliding downwards to cup his waist, he finds himself tensing again.

 _Relax,_ Eggsy thinks, mind going back to Merlin’s NLP lessons, _relax and let him in._

“You’re so tense,” Morgan murmurs against his lips. “Relax for me.”

_Kiss him back._

"No," he says, pulling away. 

_Galahad._

“No,” Eggsy repeats, stepping backwards. He feels disgusted—with himself, with Morgan, with Merlin, with Harry. “I just—I can’t. 

_Galahad! Your cover!_

_I don’t care,_ Eggsy thinks furiously. He won’t do this. Not for Kingsman, not for Harry, and if Harry can stand this, it doesn’t mean Eggsy will.  

“David,” Morgan croons, approaching him as if he was a stray, skittish cat in the estates. “I’m sorry if I surprised you. Come here.”

_Galahad, Arthur’s not done. Almost, though. He just needs a minute. Apologize, say you were nervous._

“I’m sorry,” Eggsy says mechanically. “I—I have to leave.” He turns on his heel, hurrying for the nearest door, not paying attention to Morgan’s protests until the man, indignant and still surprised by the sudden turn of events, grabs him by the arm. “Let _go_ ,” he snaps, and when Morgan won’t, Eggsy shoots him with an amnesia dart.

“Galahad! _Galahad!”_ Merlin’s not quite shouting, but his tone is clearly not happy.  “What have you just done?”

“I hit him with a dart, Merlin,” Eggsy protests, checking the nearest door. Locked.

Harry’s voice comes now, severe and disappointed as the day Eggsy refused to shoot his dog. “Why didn’t you keep your cover, _Galahad?”_

“With all due respect, _sir_ ,” Eggsy puts as much venom into that last syllable as he can, “I’m not doing this. I should have—”

“Oh, _very_ conspicuous, a politician keeled over in his own gallery after escorting someone there himself. Sloppy job, Galahad, _sloppy_ ,” Merlin berates. “And yes, you should have not signed up if you didn’t think—”

Another locked door. A janitor’s closet _._ He doesn’t even glance at the door at the end of the hall, which leads back to the party. “I know I fucked up, all right? But—”

“ _But_ nothing!” Harry interrupts. “If you weren’t comfortable with this, you should have just _told_ me. I am not a mind reader, and you’re fully capable of taking me or Merlin aside and—”

“Just told you I didn’t have the bollocks to shag someone while in a relationship? Unless _you_ think otherwise—”

Merlin injects this time, while Eggsy’s gaze lands on an unmarked door on the opposite end of the wall. “And here I thought that you two could be paired on missions together, despite your relationship status—”

“ _Status_?” Eggsy interrupts, scanning the door with his watch for a sign of an alarm. None. “What are you talking about?”

“Harry submitted the _Change in Relationship Status_ paperwork himself. We were waiting on you, and if you’re going to string him along—"

Eggsy snorts, glancing over at Morgan and wondering if he should bother moving him. “There's _paperwork?"_

"It's in the handboo—"

"No one reads that thing! And me string  _him_ along?” He wants to laugh at the irony. 

Merlin’s voice is tense. “Regardless, if your behavior is a result of some lover’s spat—"

“Oi, I can’t believe I’m hearing—”

“Hey! What’s with all this racket—I—” the security guard pauses right in the middle of his sentence, taking in the situation: a well-dressed stranger heading for a door, all while the host of the party and owner of the house lays limp on the polished wood floor.

Not the most innocent situation.   

“This,” Eggsy finishes weakly, then drops Morgan as the guard rushes at him. He’s just shouted for backup when Eggsy twists the dial of his watch to once more shoot an amnesia dart in his direction.

“Oh, fuck,” Merlin groans, just as Eggsy hears the familiar sound of running footsteps. “Looks like you’ve got four men coming your way. Arthur, lay low, don’t engage. Ready, Galahad?”

“Got it,” Eggsy says, taking stock of his surroundings as he rushes out the door, which leads to another hallway. Narrow space, with a few tiny tables with vases and paintings hanging from the walls—those he can throw someone against, though with a lot of noise that will attract more attention, which is not something he needs. He has darts, but a limited supply, and they only have a ten-minute span of downtime. There’s the blade in his shoe, his signet ring, and the grenade lighter. No gun—there had been a weapons check at the door—and no umbrella, but hopefully, his suit will take care of the bullets that will surely fly his way.

The door opens, and Eggsy prepares for a bunch of well-paid, paranoid guards.

Someone shouts, presumably into a headpiece, “Intruder! In the—” before Eggsy raises his wrist and fires a dart.

Sounds of multiple safeties being clicked off make Eggsy’s mind jump through observations. Three guards. Three guns. Probably backup coming. Hallway leads to the kitchen, where there’s a door to let out the rubbish. If he could make it—

“Surrender,” one of the guards orders. “This doesn’t have to get ugly.”

“You wish to surrender to me?” Eggsy asks. “Very well.”

Then, it’s chaos.

All of them shoot, and Eggsy throws up his arms, grunting when the bullets impact against his suit. He hears more footsteps, curses, and decides to make a run for the door. Sliding across the floor, Eggsy kicks out his leg and swings, taking down a man coming at him at full speed, then wrenches another’s arm against his back, holding him in front as a shield as more bullets fly. Snatching the gun, Eggsy fires, only missing once, and keeps going—they’re wearing bulletproof armor underneath their uniforms—ducking to avoid more bullets as he heads for the door.

As soon as he wrenches the door open and slams it shut, ignoring the startled screams from the cooks, Eggsy runs towards the exit, still holding onto the stolen weapon and feeling the night air like a sting across his face.

“Got a ride for me, Merlin?” he asks, rushing towards one of the high walls bordering the property—posh folks, _honestly_ —and hearing more yelling and someone crying out, “He went that way!”

“The cab that dropped you and Arthur off is en-route,” Merlin says. “You should hear guests rushing towards the entrance—try to join them in—blend with the crowd—unless—more guards, of course.”

“Oh, fuck,” Eggsy swears, looking towards the wall. Too high to parkour. “Anyone call the fuzz?”

“No, I doubt that Morgan wants his mansion swarming full of authorities, considering his dealings, but that doesn’t mean some of his panicked guests will.” Merlin groans. “Oh, lovely, someone activated the security system too. Expect spotlights.”

“What—oh.” Eggsy briefly shuts his eyes when several bright lights begin circling the area. “This guy is pretty paranoid, innit he?”

Merlin grunts. “Just get out of there alive, Galahad. Arthur’s coming towards you for back-up.”

Eggsy nods, looking towards one of the trees hanging over the wall. “Gotcha, guv.”

He begins running, praying the bullets would either miss or hit his suit. The guards give chase, several shouting for him to give up, to get down on the ground, but he keeps going, eyes on the tree.  _Don't look back. Don't look back._

His palms just touch the bark when something jabs into his side.

The shock that jolts through his body paralyzes his limbs, and Eggsy hits the ground before he has time to shout. 

* * *

 “…Think he’s coming around.” 

“Good. We’ll get answers from him.”

“David? Don’t think that’s his real name—looks like a solid background check, but no one seems to actually know who he is, let alone—”

 _Don’t you know it’s rude to talk behind someone’s back?_ Eggsy thinks, trying his best not to yawn. His eyelids keep closing, and when he tries to move his limbs, he’s aware that he’s trussed up, Jack Bauer-style in a classic interrogation room—light dangling from the ceiling, a two-way mirror across from him, and a large, heavy door in sight. In front of him is Morgan, who’s standing in front of him, arms crossed, with two guards on each side.

“Good, you’re awake,” one of them sneers, and gives him a quick cuff on his jaw. “What were you doing with Mr. Morgan?”

Eggsy mutely shakes his head, then halts in place.

His glasses. They’ve taken his glasses.

“All right, then,” the same man says. “Just tell us what you were up to, and we’ll shoot you without damaging the goods.” He jabs at Eggsy’s chest, fingernail pressing into the fabric of his white, button-up shirt. They’d taken his jacket, bowtie, and shoes, Eggsy dimly observes, and his watch, too, probably to take it apart after one of the guards saw him shoot from the thing.

Eggsy shakes his head again, noticing the covered silver cart at the same time a well-placed fist crunches his ribs.

Of course.

He’s been captured before, yes, but not without Merlin in his ear, murmuring quick reassurances of a retrieval team nearby. If they destroyed his glasses or watch or oxfords, the tracker most likely hadn’t survived, meaning Merlin and Harry had no idea where he was. They’d check the mansion, yes, but who said Morgan didn’t have an off-site location to dispose of people who were caught snooping around?

And _interrogation_. Eggsy had been trained, of course, and being hit didn’t scare him. Having snarls, wheedling, promises of pain didn’t scare him, either—Dean had cured him of that. But he remembers the slides, the videos, the physical demonstration with dummies whose pain areas lit up when touched by an instrument of choice. Charlie had gone pale and looked like he might hurl, Roxy had watched with tightened lips and clenched fists, and Eggsy had forced himself to look, calculating how much pain he’d go through before screaming.

That’s what had come to mind when he woke up on those train tracks, but from the moment the demand to reveal who Harry Hart was, Eggsy had shut his mouth and prepared to die. Not for Kingsman, the organization who handed them body bags and let a girl drown, but for _Harry_ ’s idea of Kingsman—a second chance, a place for Eggsy, where he could give himself and his family a better life.

“Let’s start with something simple,” the same guard’s saying. “What is your name?”

Eggsy looks him in the eye, trying to catch his breath. “My name is David Carter.”

Predictably, he’s given a cuff around the head. “Wrong answer.” The man looks at Morgan. “Sounds like he’s a South Londoner. That’s one falsity for him.” He sneers at Eggsy. “Didn’t grow up in Kensington, did you?”

Eggsy glares, as everyone has a good laugh at that.  _Fucking hilarious._

“Who do you work for?” the other guard demands.

“Would I really tell you?”

Morgan smiles, but not like the friendly one he’d given Eggsy when he had been David Carter. “Of course not, but spies have secrets, yes? I’m sure you have a lot to tell.” He nods at one of the men, who steps towards the cart and draws out a syringe. The serum is clear like water, and the needle is bright silver and the length of Eggsy's middle finger. “Let’s try a dose, all right?”

The guard’s none too gentle when he stabs the needle into Eggsy’s shoulder and pushes the plunger down.

Glaring wordlessly at the men, Eggsy tries to think. His wrists hurt, his legs are asleep, his face is smarting, and his eyes still feel very, very heavy. He doesn’t know if anyone’s coming for him— _they will, they will, they have to_ —and he has no escape plan. Yet.

 _They won’t leave me,_ he thinks frantically. _Don’t panic, they won’t leave you, not like this._

Highest discretion, though. If they have amnesia darts, wouldn’t they—wouldn’t they just let their secrets die with one agent? They’d called off the search for Harry, after all, after nearly a year. _Too much swarming around,_ Merlin had told him sympathetically.

_No. No._

Morgan reaches for him, hand slowly tracing over one of the bruises forming on Eggsy’s jaw, then presses _hard_.

“Don’t touch me,” Eggsy snaps, jerking his head away. “Don’t…” His tongue feels heavy all of the sudden. Something in his veins tingle, cold and sharp. He feels loose all over, floating into space, then twitchy and shivery and panicky. His mind stops formulating escape methods and starts turning into mush, and he feels tired, so very tired, but also as if he'd drank five cups of Merlin's strongest coffee. 

“Looks like it’s beginning to work,” Morgan says calmly. “All right, _David,_ who are you?”

“Not—not going to tell you.”

“All right, then, but you will tell us who this gentleman is?” one of the guards holds up a tablet, streaming what looks like security footage with Harry slipping out of what looks like a control room. “His invitation says Henry Devere, but unless I’m mistaken, Henry Devere is just a mere businessman. Unless…?”

“’Less what?” Eggsy slurs. His hands have gone numb. _Harry. He has to warn Harry._

“Harry, huh?” Morgan says, and horror pinches Eggsy’s throat when he realizes he’s said that aloud. “Familiar with him?”

“No,” Eggsy says, concentrating this time on that one word and nothing else.

“Are you sure?” Morgan asks, voice sweet in mock pity. 

Eggsy shakes his head, making sure what comes out of his mouth is carefully controlled, almost bored. “Not close at all.”

“Then you don’t mind us taking a little break from you and visiting him across the hall?”

 _No. No._ “What are you talking about?” Panic slips into his voice before he can stop it. _They don’t have him; they don’t._

“Oh, we do,” Morgan continues, eyes brightening in the face of Eggsy’s fear. "He won’t talk, but I’m sure he’ll break, just as you will.”

“You know nothin’ about him,” Eggsy snaps. “Nothin’!” He tugs at his restraints, words falling out of his lips, unchecked and ferocious. _You need to stop talking. You need to stop talking._ “He came back from the dead!” Eggsy continues, voice getting louder. “And if he isn’t here, he’ll come for me. He’ll come for me, he has to, he’s going to, but if you don’t—if you really do have him, you won’t stand a chance against him! You fucking bastards, you—”

He works up enough to spit in one of the guard’s faces, which earns him a punch to the jaw, then another to his stomach.

“Stop!” Morgan orders, then smiles again at Eggsy, full of teeth. His canines are pointed, and his eyes are full of cruelty, so much that Egsgy wondered how anyone could find him handsome. "Do you know how long a man can survive without food? Have you ever been hungry, truly hungry?" His voice lowers to nearly a whisper. "Or thirsty? We can leave you here until you won't be able to take a piss. Or, we can lift that cloth over there and show you what all those instruments are for. Oh, what else? We can do all of those things to your _friend,_ too. You have so many options, but here's one: tell me what you doing in my mansion.”

 _I love him,_  Eggsy thinks. _I won’t give him up—_

“Oh, you _love_ him. You were reluctant to kiss me, hm? I saw the footage." Morgan smirks. "But do you honestly think he’ll fight for you?”

_He’s gone; he abandoned you. No, no, he hasn't._

“You might as well tell us what we want. Don’t you want to? Show him a thing or two? Prove that you're more than his little puppy dog at his heels? That's what you are, right?”

_No, no, I'm not, not like that._

“I don’t know who you are, but you are _nothing_. Do you hear me? You’re— _what_ is that?”

It’s messed up if Eggsy finds relief in the sound of gunshots and men screaming.

It’s even more messed up that he falls asleep to it. 

* * *

“Eggsy? Eggsy?”

He cringes against the bright light, shaking his head. His head swims with the motion, his ribs protesting when he kicks his legs, feeling thin, almost gauzy fabric against his skin. “No, I won’t tell you anything, I won’t—”

“Eggsy, you’re in medical. You’re safe. I’m here.” A hand covers his, squeezes. “I’m here." 

He recognizes that voice, those callouses, the signet ring on the smallest finger: “…Harry?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m here, darling. You’re safe. Oh, Eggsy, they hurt you. I’m sorry.”

There’s so much Eggsy wants to say, but he’s too sore, too tired. “Don’t leave me,” he murmurs, and tries to squeeze Harry’s fingers in return. “Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t.” Harry’s voice is gentle. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

And when Eggsy wakes up for the second time, Harry is still there.

He's there when Eggsy's trapped in medical, being asked hundreds of questions about his condition, being lectured about staying in bed and resting and not hindering his recovery, and being tested and poked and prodded. He waits outside when Eggsy has to go through a few sessions of therapy post-torture and has to recount what they did to him, said to him, then pulls him into a silent, understanding embrace when he finally walks out of the tiny room. He accompanies Eggsy to his flat, watches him play with Daisy and smile for his mum, eats with the family, and offers him a place to stay when Eggsy wakes up for the second time to half-scrambled nightmares.

And in the morning, he makes breakfast, every day, without fail. 

Eggsy doesn't speak much, but Harry doesn't push. He fills Eggsy's plate, offers to be his companion during JB's walks, and holds Eggsy, tucked underneath the covers of Harry's bed. He feels safe like this, ensconced where he can feel Harry's heartbeat, his warm and steady breaths, his hands resting on Eggsy's back. They just do that—sleep—and when Eggsy wakes up in the middle of night, spine tensed and mouth dry, Harry pulls him back and silently stays up with him until Eggsy's able to close his eyes again and drift away. 

After a time, after nights like this, Eggsy's ready to talk. 

* * *

Chester, he learns, used to be known as Kay, and the Galahad before Harry was someone boring. But more importantly, Harry was a prat, and part of his transformation was due to Merlin, who was—of course—the Scottish recruit Chester had so dismissively mentioned. 

Harry shows him a clip where Merlin, with hair, punches him for the first time. They tussle and kick and basically beat the shit out of each other on the training mat before the quartermaster pulls them apart, swearing loudly, and there begins a rivalry for the ages. Merlin hijacks everything, from cars to computer systems that looks like something out of Star Trek; Harry shoots targets with deadly precision: head and heart; their puppies race each other along long stretches of track; their books and notes get routinely stolen; Merlin scribbles as rapidly as Harry during many of the written exams; and gradually, very gradually, do they begin to get along, once Harry stops being a know-it-all.

When Merlin is eliminated, he and Harry shake hands, Merlin's panting Shetland Sheepdog sitting by his side and Mr. Pickle trying to dig up the plush carpet.

Merlin walks out the door, then looks back with a smirk to toss out a "You couldn't help but like me, Hart, huh?" 

Harry rolls his eyes. "Don't flatter yourself. You're cleverer than the rest of them. It doesn't mean I'll weep at your bedside if you fall ill." 

"Don't count on it on my end," Merlin replies dryly, but Eggsy can already tell both men don't mean it. 

"Do you remember what we talked about the first time I took you to the shop?" Harry asks, after the video ends. He's sitting at the table with Eggsy and a feast of English breakfast, mostly untouched. "Before I showed you Fitting Room Three?" 

_So, are you going to teach me to talk proper, like in My Fair Lady?_

_Don't be absurd. Being a gentleman has nothing to do with one's accent. It's about being at ease in one's own skin. As Hemingway once said, "there is nothing superior about being superior to your fellow man. True nobility is about being superior to your former self."_

"I do," Eggsy replies.

"Merlin quoted that at me, the first time I mocked him." Harry looks down at his hands. "I've never forgotten it. I'm not who I was all those years ago. I have thought and said things I now find reprehensible." Eggsy watches Harry take a deep death. "I recruited Lee because he had potential. Part of me thinks I was trying to make up for everything I did. But along the way, I grew to care for him. I could no longer see him as a piece in a redemption quest, and with you..." He doesn't look at Eggsy. "You were different. I could see so much of Lee in you, the man I failed to save, but as I got to know  _you,_ ever since you told me off about ivory towers, I saw something I didn't understand until I came back." He takes another breath. "All I hope you don't think...this is pretend. There are still some things I need to work on—and I try to relearn what I've been taught, have been told to believe in iron-clad terms, but I don't always do the right thing. And I'm sorry if I made you feel like you were in the wrong when you weren't."

Eggsy slowly nods. "What are we going to do about the...honeypots?" He mentally winces, knowing he cocked up it. The overall mission had been deemed completed, thanks to Harry getting the information to take down Morgan, but the alias of Henry Devere, after thirty years, had been retired for the time being, as with David Carter. Part of him isn't eager to go to the work, where the gossip, Roxy tells him, has taken a life of its own, but he wants to be able to go back soon and redeem himself.

"Yes." Harry sighs, taking a sip of his no longer steaming cup of tea. "We should talk about that."

"We _should_." Eggsy sighs, too, fiddling with his fork. "Look, just give me a number. How many have you slept with?"

" _Eggsy_."

"That many?" Parades of faceless men and women stroll in and out of his vision again. "What about for recreation, huh? Twenty? Fifty? Hundred?" At Harry's silence, Eggsy groans, "Oh, _God,_  more than that, _fuck_ —"

"I love you." 

"I know that," Eggsy moans, "but you've had loads of experience and what I am at twenty fucking years compared to—what did you just say?" 

"I _said_ ," Harry repeats, a little irritably, "that I love you." 

It takes an embarrassing amount of time for that to sink in. "Oh."

Harry sounds stunned. "Did you honestly not...know?" 

"Well, we never put a label on it, or talked, and I just—"

"Oh, Eggsy. You thought—no, this isn't a mere fling." Harry touches his cheek, thumb slowly caressing his jawline. "I hoped...this is more. If you want it." 

"Yes! Harry, yes, I've wanted—but I thought—I haven't really, until you—"

"Eggsy, I honestly don't care if you've had a million lovers," Harry interrupts, voice low and honest. "Or none. If you want to have sex. If you don't. All that matters is...that you think of me."

All Eggsy can ask is "Have you loved any of them?" 

Harry seems to think very hard before finally answering, slowly, "There might have been times where I thought so. When I thought I could make it work. I can't lie to you and tell you I've never felt romantic affection, but I can tell you I've also never felt...love like this. That I feel for you. But you're young, Eggsy," Harry says, but his heart doesn't seem into it, like he doesn't want Eggsy have some sort of sudden revelation and leave for the door. "You don't—" 

"What? I don't know what love is?" Eggsy retorts. "That I'm too young?" 

"You _are_ young!" Harry retorts. "You can't deny that. And how many people have you loved, Eggsy?" 

"I love my mum, Daisy, Roxy—"

"That's not what I mean."

A lump rises in Eggsy's throat. Of course they're _rowing_ on the day Harry first said that he loves him. "You think I can't understand what I feel for you? Because I'm so young and naive? Or somehow not good enough? Is that what you think of me?"

"I worry I'm not good enough for _you_." Harry looks ashamed. "After that night, I was ready to accept if you didn't want to pursue a relationship. I know your generation—I know, I know—don't always consider sex to equal a commitment, but I..." He trails off, gaze focusing on his empty mug in front of him.

Eggsy takes a deep breath of his own. "When I was...being held, they told me that they got you." He stares down at his plate. The grease from the eggs is soaking into his toast. "They tricked me, I was drugged up to the gills, and I thought...I was...I couldn't deal with it, Harry. And I should have. You wouldn't have lost your nerve like that." 

Harry takes his hand. "I lost my nerve forty times that day," he says. "Merlin forced me to exit the premises when you got captured. I wasn't allowed to pursue you, since I was deemed _too close_. I had to watch Roxy, Percival, and Bors try to figure out where they took you and break down the door of that horrible bunker and carry you out, all while I was sitting there useless behind a desk." His thumb begins to move over Eggsy's knuckles, from side to side. "I wanted to be there. I wanted to kill every man who had a part in laying a hand on you. I wanted to hold you in my arms and reassure you that you were going to be all right." 

Eggsy looks into Harry's eyes and recognizes what he sees there: helplessness. This is as vulnerable as he's seen Harry—not in the medical wing with tubes and machines, not cursing up a storm during physical therapy, not in bed with the curtains down. "Hey. I'm here." 

They sit in silence for a long time, until Harry says, "The breakfast is getting cold. Do you want me to warm it up?"

"I'll help," Eggsy offers. 

And afterwards, they dig in. 

* * *

“So, I did it."

Harry looks up from his tablet, smiling when Eggsy enters his office, having long given up on asking him to knock. “Did you now, darling?"

Eggsy tries to suppress a warm feeling in his heart that burns whenever he hears one of Harry’s pet names for him. A small part, one buried underneath the surface and nurtured by Dean’s cuffs and insults, asks him if he could really be someone’s _darling_ , if he’s not just fooling Harry into thinking he’s something other than a fuck-up. 

But those days are over.

“Yes.” Eggsy smiles, sauntering over to Harry’s desk and placing both of his palms on a polished surface that isn’t cluttered with papers. “I submitted my _Change in Relationship Status_ to my file. In twenty-hour hours, it should be reviewed and approved.” He feels giddy, in spite of the fact that Kingsman paperwork is not usually a cause for eagerness—more like extreme boredom and cramps in his right fingers. But putting down _Harry Hart_ next to _Intended Partner/Lover_ still makes his stomach jump.

“I can’t imagine Merlin rejecting it,” Harry says, putting down his tablet to take his hand. “Are you ready to go home?”

Another jump in his stomach. _Home_ is Harry’s house, with its warm glow of the streetlights outside when they walk up to the door, the creak of the door swinging open, and the slightly organized mess of the front room and kitchen. Harry looks like the type who would scold someone for eating on the couch or would wipe down the counters after making dinner, but in reality, he has a tendency to procrastinate and only really leaps into action when the dishes are beginning to pile up and the laundry’s in a sizeable stack on the dryer.

Eggsy doesn’t mind it, even though the old flat where he, his mum, and sister don’t live anymore often looked more like a storage place than a home. Instead of Dean lazing about and barking orders for someone to clean up the mess—never mind that he could do it himself or simply ask one of his mates to help out—Harry and Eggsy work together. On Sundays, they do a full cleaning day with dusting and sweeping and scrubbing and reward themselves for the effort by making a nice dinner and sitting with it on the couch, often watching a film and JB snuggle at Eggsy’s feet.

It’s frighteningly domestic, something Eggsy thought he would never really have when waking up to Daisy’s screams, Dean’s banging on the wall, his mum’s quiet groans. Two weeks into officially moving into Harry’s house, Eggsy thinks that the peace he has is such a new, fragile thing.

“Yes,” Eggsy says in response to Harry’s question, and Harry stands up, gracefully whisking his jacket off the back of his chair and slipping it over his broad shoulders. He packs his tablet into a leather briefcase, picks up his umbrella, and opens the door for Eggsy. He follows Harry out the door, watching Harry quickly test it to see if it’s locked before lifting his arm and crooking it for Eggsy to take like some young maiden from medieval times.

“So,” Eggsy says, as they stroll down the hallway. “How was your day?”

Harry sighs. “Very tedious and dull, unfortunately, along with a minor headache.” He then smiles softly. “But not so bad now that you’re here.”

“I’m your medicine, hm?” Eggsy teases. “Maybe I should look the part. Me in a nurse uniform, giving you a sponge bath…" He lowers his voice to  a murmur. "I’d ask you to take off your clothes, then I’ll lift a flannel out of a bucket, squeeze it, and slowly wipe you down—“

Harry presses a firm kiss to his mouth, stopping Eggsy’s fantasy in mid-sentence, and Eggsy parts his lips and responds, hands roaming to hold onto his shoulders. Eggsy doesn’t consider himself short, but standing next to Harry, whose legs seem to make up eighty percent of his body, makes him have to crane his neck and stand slightly on his toes in order to kiss him. Kissing Harry feels like giving himself over to him, like leaning backwards in a steaming bath and letting the water envelop him, up, up, up near his neck, carefully below his chin, his gaping mouth, his nose. 

“I thought you were tired,” Eggsy says playfully.

“I could muster enough energy, but don't we only have time for a quick dinner before that concert?"

Eggsy grins. "We _do_. Come on, let's not be late."


End file.
